Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

Archive for the tag “idiocy”

Thanksgiving with the Family 2015: Oh the Humanity

thankgiving hindenburg

The big family Thanksgiving almost went this well.

You’re back at the big family Thanksgiving for another year of turkey, Wild Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, and giant heaping of accusation and guilt.

They’re all there: grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, Cousin It, fat hobbits, in-laws, out-laws, felons, those still awaiting trial, significant others, insignificant others, and the cast of that creepy movie The Others.

Your family is like a cross between Ma and Pa Kettle and the Manson Family.

You’re in for treat this year because your uncle (the volunteer fireman) is going to cook the turkey in a deep fryer.

You question the wisdom of allowing your uncle (the volunteer fireman) to operate a deep fryer as his presence seems to frequently precede catastrophe.

You decide to check on your uncle (the volunteer fireman) to see how he is doing. Not out of concern, but out of the sheer enjoyment you derive when bad things happen to him (your uncle–the volunteer fireman).

Note: you may think I’m bringing up the point that your uncle (the volunteer fireman) is a volunteer fireman a little too frequently. But it’s not as frequently as he brings it up.

“How are things going with the turkey,” you ask.

“Things are going great–I’m volunteer fireman you know,” he boasts.

“I’ve heard that once or twice,” you tell him. “It’s just that…when you leave a place, things tend to be on fire that weren’t on fire before you got there. You’re really more like a fireman from Fahrenheit 451 than a genuine fireman.”

“If I understood that reference, would I be pissed-off?” he asks you.

You explain that Fahrenheit 451 is a Ray Bradbury novel set in a dystopian future where firemen start fires rather than putting them out.

“If I knew what dystopian means, would I be pissed-off?” he follows.

“I think you’d be fine with it,” you reply.

You decide you don’t actually want to be within the blast radius when events unfold as they inevitably will, so you go back inside.

You discover one of your cousins sitting on the couch moping because her boyfriend couldn’t be there. It seems coming within one-hundred feet of your family is a violation of his parole.

One of your uncles enters the house in full blood-stained camouflage hunting gear.

You ask him if he had any luck in the woods today.

“What makes you think I’ve been hunting today,” he replies.

You walk away quickly.

One of your aunts comments on how well things seem to be going this year. “There hasn’t been one stabbing yet,” she exclaims. Then she shows everyone how well the bayonet wound in her face is healing.

One of your cousins is reminiscing about year her father was carving the turkey and inadvertently cut his thumb off.

Note: he drinks.

Clarification: he drinks an enormous amount.

Luckily your uncle (the volunteer fireman) was there to administer first-aid.

“The doctor said they could have reattached the thumb if it hadn’t caught on fire,” your cousin comments. “He said he had never seen something packed in a bag of ice catch on fire before.”

You spend some time talking to the guy with the eye-patch and the hook for a hand. You have no idea how you’re related to him, but he’s the only one you get along with.

hook hand

You have no idea who this guy is, but you like him.

Your aunt arrives with a bunch of homemade pies, creating a horrible dilemma: you love sweet potato pie, but your aunt is a twisted wreck of hatred and soul devouring evil…but you love sweet potato pie.

Your uncle (the one you refer to as Two-Faced Rat-Bastard) starts to make an announcement.

“I’ve discovered something disturbing about my wife,” he says.

“We’ve all heard about her vestigial penis,” you tell him.

“It’s not the penis thing,” he says, “it’s something much worse.”

But before he can make his announcement, another cousin bursts through the door to tell everyone your uncle (the volunteer fireman) has accidentally set his face on fire.

“How did that happen?” your aunt yells.

“I don’t know,” your cousin responds. “It just burst into flames like the Hindenburg. One minute he was just standing there telling us about how he’s a volunteer fireman, the next minute he’s burning like he’s full of hydrogen.”

“Did anyone put the fire out?” your aunt demands.

“We tried. He just yelled,don’t worry, I’ve got this, I’m a volunteer fireman.’” Then he ran into the barn and shoved his face into a big pile of hay.

“And that put the fire out?”

“No,” your cousin answers. “Also, the barn’s on fire.”

As luck would have it, your uncle (the volunteer fireman) as he was running from the barn after setting it on fire, tripped and fell face first into a pile of cow manure, extinguishing the fire on his face.

“Amazing,” you comment, “normally the bullshit is coming out of his face, not going into it.”

Your family stares at you with a level of hatred that’s more intense than normal.

“Relax,” you tell them. “At least it wasn’t a stabbing.”


Your uncle (the volunteer fireman) was here.


Purple Pilgrims and the Death of Artistic Choice


The way Pilgrims are supposed to look…if you have no creativity.

As a child you learn many lessons:

  • Regardless of how far your garden hose sprays, you’re still too close to the hornet’s nest.
  • You never want to discover the quantitative value for the phrase “mad as a hornet.”
  • Regardless of how sturdy it seems, an umbrella is not an adequate substitute for a parachute.
  • Your cousins lie.
  • You can be lying in a crumpled heap, several bones broken, some of them relatively important, and the first thing any adult will think to say is: “look at what you did to my umbrella.”
  • Even though most varieties of snakes are not venomous, you still don’t want them to bite you.
  • Convincing your cousin to let a snake bite him so that you find out whether or not it’s venomous, seems like a good idea, but it will really piss-off your aunt.
  • Did I mention cousins lie.
  • Never utter the phrase “sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never harm me,” to someone who is in possession of sticks or stones. In the savage jungle of playground justice, you will be pelted with a barrage of sticks and stones.
  • When adults say cheaters never prosper, they’re full of it. Cheaters prosper all of the time, mostly because they’re cheating.
  • Don’t melt Play-Doh on the stove. What seems like a voyage of scientific discovery to you, is just wanton destruction to some people.
  • Burning Play-Doh emits a noxious smoke.
  • Smoke alarms are startlingly loud.
  • Melting crayons on the radiator is fun, until your mom finds them.
  • And finally: artistic creativity is not always welcomed.

It happened when I was a first-grader at R.R. Rogers Elementary School in Jamestown, NY.

Our class was making a Thanksgiving Day mural from construction paper. We were broken into groups, my group was tasked with making the Pilgrims.

We immediately found there to be a dearth of orange construction paper, the color used to make the Pilgrims’ faces and hands.

I made a command decision: we’ll use purple construction paper for the Pilgrims faces and hands. “It’ll be avant-garde,” I said.

Note: I’ll bet you don’t think a six-year old would use the word avant-garde. It’s my story, and I’ll tell it the way I want.

Tracy the tattletale strongly objected and ran to inform the teacher, (Tracy was such a conformist) but as a renown tattletale, the teacher simply told her to hush, and just work with the others.

Note: not only was our group saddled with Tracy the tattletale, we also had Keith the paste-eater. It was a nightmare.

We completed our project and handed it in with a great sense of pride and accomplishment.

Our teacher was displeased. It’s difficult to overemphasize just how displeased she was.

“They’re purple,” she shrieked, as if we were a bunch of colorblind idiots.

“We know they’re purple,” we told her, “we’re not kindergarteners.”

As it happened, the mural was going up on the wall for a big parent/teacher thing that night. She’d left that bit of information out of the instructions.

Note: on the heels of Halloween, and our pumpkin making spree, she should have known we’d be low on orange construction paper, which brings me to another important lesson learned: when at all possible, deflect blame.

It was the end of the day, and there was no time to do anything about it, so up they went.

In the end the parents were simply amused by the purple Pilgrims; it seems adults really don’t expect a lot from six-year old children.


I wonder if Salvador Dali’s teacher criticized him for drawing everything all floppy.

floppy watches

At least he didn’t have the gall to make Pilgrims purple.

Meet the New Neighbors.

image source:

New neighbors have moved in next to you, and you are hopeful of the type of neighbors they will be. Will they be quiet and tidy? Will they have well behaved children or pets that won’t bark all night or crap on your lawn? Will they be fun people who invite you to barbeques?

Then you meet them and your hopes are dashed. There are certain things you just don’t want to hear come out of your new neighbor’s mouth:

  • We’re members of the Society of Obese Nudists, we’ll be holding our weekly meetings in the backyard.
  • Would you like to meet Yancey and Theodore, our pet howler monkeys.
  • If you hear weird sounds or see odd lights emanating from my basement, don’t worry about it, I’ll just be conducting a few experiments. By the way, if you have any spare DNA lying around, I could really use it.
  • Hi, I’m Charlie Sheen, could I borrow a cup of cocaine? I seemed to have left my cocaine suitcase with my porn star girlfriend.
  • Do you like garden gnomes as much as I like garden gnomes? I hope you do, because I have hundreds of them.
  • I’m Hannibal Lecter, I’d love to have you over for dinner.
  • We’re not actual neonazis, they weren’t radical enough for us. But I’m sure that you and I will get along just fine Mr. Abramowitz.
  • Out entire family just loves to yodel.
  • No. We don’t shave off all of our body hair because the cult makes us, we just like the way it feels. Although, the testicle piercing is mandatory.
  • I’m Tom Cruise, could I interest you in some literature on how Scientology will change your life.
  • Don’t mind all the roosters, they only crow at sunrise.
  • Don’t worry about all the rats you see us carrying in, we use them to feed all of our giant pet snakes. They only escape once in a while…but if you have small children, keep an eye out.
  • You won’t have to worry about noisy lawnmowers with us, all the goats and sheep, take care of our lawn.
  • You might recognize us from out television show–Jersey Shore.

    Bad neighbor
    (image source:

Even worse neighbors.
(image source:

I’ve Been so Busy…and Invertebrate

She turned me into a banana slug...I got better.

She turned me into a banana slug…I got better.

You may have noticed my recent absence from the blogging world.

You probably didn’t notice it right away. It just suddenly dawned on you one day that a persistent irritant had disappeared. Like when you suddenly realized the itching had stopped because that annoying rash had finally gone away.

But you’re not rid of me yet. You can get all the restraining orders and pepper-spray you want, but I’m not going anywhere.

Take that, Beth.

Note: the previous line was for comedic effect only. I am not following or harassing a woman named Beth in any manner that could be construed as a violation of any court order.

Note to the note: my lawyer advised me to add that last note.

You see, I’m like herpes: you will never truly be rid of me. I’ll always be there lurking, just waiting to show up and ruin your weekend.

It’s been a rough few months.

Anyway, I’ve been preoccupied recently.


I’ve taken up the silent art in an elaborate scheme to infiltrate the world of mime and sabotage it from the inside.

I planned to work tirelessly to become the world’s most prolific and prominent mime.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of miming, I would embark on a downward spiral of debauchery and scandal that would permanently stain the miming world.

Unfortunately I was unable to bring my plan to fruition; it seems miming is way harder than it looks. Also, I’ve discovered I’m allergic to white face-paint, berets, and being punched in the groin by small children. (They have little fists of steel.)

I do however plan to go forward with the downward spiral of debauchery and scandal.

Note: the previous line was for comedic effect only. I have no intention of committing any acts that could be considered debaucherous or scandalous. (My lawyer is so freaking priggish.)

Juggling Chainsaws

My attempt at learning to juggle chainsaws was going along swimmingly…until suddenly it wasn’t.

Learning To Write With My Left Hand

Upon falling victim to an unforeseeable and unpreventable accident–again my lawyer’s words–I have lost all use of my right hand.

Well…that’s not strictly true; it makes a interesting paperweight.

Would it be so difficult to print the words, NOT TO BE USED FOR JUGGLING OR ANYTHING COOL, somewhere on a chainsaw?

Note: perhaps I should have learned how to mime chainsaw juggling.

chainsaw hand

Where’s the warning, Husqvarna?

I Spent Several Weeks As A Banana Slug

If you’ve read this blog in the past, you will know that my aunts are a great big gaggle of witches.

You will also know that I have on occasion angered them. Maybe it was something I said. Maybe it was something I did. Perhaps it was something I wrote in this blog about their chunky thighs, potato-faced children, or their general tendency to be evil hags.

But usually it’s my mere existence that sets them off.

Anyway, they turned me into a banana slug.

It’s ridiculously hard to use a keyboard when you’re a banana slug. You get brilliant ideas, but you just can’t execute them.

On the upside, banana slugs have voracious sex lives. There is nothing in this world sexier than a banana slug…to another banana slug.

Take that, Beth. You’re no banana slug.

banana slug


I’ve Had No Good Ideas

I’m just kidding; I’ve never had any good ideas.

I promise I will post again soon, and it will be my usual level of crap.


It’s also useful for scaring small children after they’ve punched you in the groin.

10 Things That Should Happen in the NFL but Probably Won’t



Gisele Bundchen announces split from Tom Brady, she claims his game balls aren’t the only things “under-inflated.”


The red challenge flag to be replaced with a confetti canon filled with angry bees.

mike tomlin

“I wish I had a confetti canon full of angry bees.”


The two-minute warning is now marked by the release of 200 frenzied honey badgers onto the field.


Every team’s official mascot is a monkey in a cowboy hat on a unicycle.


The ghost of Otto Graham starts at quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. Even though his form is ethereal, he still gets sacked multiple times in a bitter defeat.


A new rule that stipulates the team losing at halftime must dress as rodeo clowns for the second half.


Jim Brown trades in his trademark Kufi cap for a beanie with a propeller.

Jim Brown

“Was that Otto Graham I just saw?”


Referees are replaced with blindfolded mimes. (The Patriots still get the majority of the calls.)


The Super Bowl halftime show: Pope Francis battles Justin Bieber in a knife fight to the death. (Neither one of them sings.)


The Buffalo Bills win the Super Bowl as a record cold snap grips Hell.

Bill win Super Bowl

“This is Jim Cantore reporting live from Hell.”

Wouldn’t it be Easier?


Wouldn’t the world be a better, more navigable place, if people’s names reflected their personality traits and true characters?

Imagine if the highway patrolman could read the name on the driver’s license of that attractive young woman who’s trying to flirt her way out the ticket, and say, “I’d like to let you go without a citation Miss…Manipulative Little Tramp, but I don’t think I can do that today.”

If Phil, that wonderful guy you just met, who you are convinced will be the perfect husband, had the full name of Philandering Piece Of Crap, wouldn’t heartache be avoided?

If that cute girl who moved into your apartment building had been named Crazy Potential Stalker, none of those restraining orders would have been necessary, and that deadbolt wouldn’t have had to be replaced. (She was 110 pounds of muscle and crazy.)

If Jeffrey Dahmer had been named more appropriately, perhaps fewer young men would’ve fallen prey to his wiles. People tend to not let their guard down around you when your name is Homicidal Flesh Eating Weirdo.

If some of my aunts bore names like Insidious Hag, Conniving Bridge Troll, or anything with the words wicked or odiferous in them, perhaps I would have made fewer snarky comments about their chunky thighs or their dull-witted offspring…probably not, but perhaps.

Note: it has been brought to my attention that my uncle, Two-Faced Lying Rat-Bastard, is furious with some of the things I have written in this blog. In particular he is unhappy with my implications that some of my aunts are witches or monsters. As an olive branch, from this point forward, I will no longer imply that some of my aunts are witches or monsters; I will use only declarative statements. I’m happy we could work this out.

If Adolph Hitler had been called Genocidal Maniac, the world may have been slightly more wary during his ascent to power.

Ditto Mao Tse-tung.

Ditto Joseph Stalin.

Ditto Milton Obote.

Ditto Idi Amin.

It’s reported Idi Amin liked to be called:

His Excellency, President For Life Field Marshall Al HADJ Doctor Idi Amin DADA, VC, DSO, MC. Lord Of All The Beasts Of The Earth And Fishes Of The Sea And Conqueror Of The British Empire In Africa In General, And Uganda In Particular.

He should have been called Gigantic Arrogant Penis, or under my naming system: Piers Morgan.

A few examples of people renamed under my system:

  • Justin Bieber: Annoying Little Prick.
  • Taylor Swift: Annoying Chick.
  • Miley Cyrus: Annoying Chick Who’s Frequently Naked.
  • Kim Kardashian: Undeservedly Famous Chick Who’s Frequently Naked.
  • Kayne West: Mr. Undeservedly Famous Chick Who’s Frequently Naked.
  • North West: Little Girl Routinely Picked On In School Because Her Parents Are Idiots. (Mine is only slightly less ridiculous.)
  • Charles Manson: Homicidal Nutbar.
  • Ted Bundy: Charming Homicidal Nutbar.
  • Piers Morgan: Piers Morgan.
  • My aunt: Wart-Faced Witch. (See, declarative.)
miley cyrus

Annoying Chick Who’s Frequently Naked in concert.

The list could go on and on, and it may in a future post.

Until next time,

Guy Who Gets Pepper-Sprayed Far Too Frequently For It To Be Reasonable.


10 More Reasons People Unfollow This Blog

top ten

Number 10

I lost virtually all my Neo-Nazi followers after a post entitled: Adolph Hitler: He Was Kind of a Dick.

Note: the few remaining Neo-Nazi followers were driven off by my series of posts about Kosher foods and why they’re awesome.

Number 9

The vicious attacks by members of the Justin Bieber fan club have begun to take their toll. (12-year-old girls are just plain mean.)

Number 8

The entire Piers Morgan fan club, promised vengeance after overreacting to a few innocuous things I wrote about the condescending pompous twit. (Seriously. Both his fans were really pissed.)

Number 7

While Kim Kardashian’s oiled-up nude buttocks didn’t break the internet; it broke something inside me.

Note: The Kardashians as a whole, broke Bruce Jenner.

Number 6

Transgender followers of this blog, offended by my characterization of Bruce Jenner as broken, just hit the unfollow button.


After exhaustively searching the internet, I found a picture of Kim Kardashian fully clothed.

Number 5

Despite its fall in 1991, the influence of the Politburo of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union has lingered.

Note: it’s unclear what effect the highest policy-making government authority in the formerly communist Soviet Union, has had on this blog, but I am certain it’s not good.

Number 4

My undying devotion to Donald Trump has alienated a few followers: Democrats, Republicans, illegal immigrants, former cast members of The Apprentice, and Hair Club for Men members.

Number 3

After my ugly break with the Church of Scientology, Tom Cruise’s army of thugs have been relentless in their opposition of this blog.

Number 2

Although they’re no longer on the air, the Amish Mafia never forgets.

Note: Conversely, the former cast of The Jersey Shore can’t remember what they had for breakfast. (They had scrambled eggs, tequila, and steroids.)

Number 1

After the alcohol induced haze passes, people realize this blog is crap.

Honorable Mention

This post.


It is odd the WordPress spell check function doesn’t recognize the word unfollow, but the WordPress site uses the word unfollow? Just asking.


Get your act together WordPress.

An Idiot’s Bucket List


Evidently playing in the sand is on my bucket list.

I was recently asked what’s on my bucket list.

I told him I didn’t have any buckets, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t make a list of them. What am I, some kind of idiot?

I was informed that I am an idiot, and I clearly didn’t know what a bucket list was.

Note: it seems I was also confused about what a bucket is. Evidently chamber pots don’t count.

An idiot’s Bucket List

  • Have a conversation with an attractive woman that doesn’t end with me rinsing the pepper spray from my eyes.
  • Go on a date with an attractive woman.
  • Go on a date with any woman.
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (not the dried fruit).
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (the dried fruit).
  • Purchase a Ronco food dehydrator, enabling me to reduce a watermelon to the size of a pea without sacrificing an ounce of flavor or nutritional value.
  • I want to invent a machine that enlarges a pea to the size of a watermelon without adding an iota of flavor or nutritional value.
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the name Lake Titicaca.
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the word peninsula, because it reminds me of the word penis.

Note: etymologists claim the word peninsula has no derivation from the word penis. I am skeptical. Why are most peninsulas shaped like penis’s?

Entomologists also claim the word peninsula has no derivation from the word penis. But first they enlighten us with some fascinating facts about the Egyptian dung beetle. (Egypt: not a peninsula-not shaped like a penis. Just saying.)

  • I want to punch Justin Bieber in his smug little face.
  • I want to meet Justin Bieber, and subsequently punch him in his smug little face.
  • I want to be dining in a restaurant where Justin Bieber chokes on his meal, and I step in and heroicly save his life…so I can punch him in his smug little face.
  • I’d like to dine in a restaurant where they know me, and there’s only a moderate chance my food will be spat in.
  • I want to go back to the days when I didn’t know what human saliva tastes like.
  • I want to ride a dolphin, but a porpoise will do.
  • I want to know the difference between a dolphin and a porpoise.
  • I want to operate a boat without every other passenger on the boat fearing for their lives.
  • I want to stand on the Great Wall of China, turn to person next to me, and declare, “let’s see the neighbor’s dog crap on my lawn now.”
  • I want to finish the Eiffel Tower, but do a really crappy job.
  • I want to make a mime talk…and if at all possible, cry.
  • I want to write an opera in Italian.
  • I want to learn how to write in Italian.
  • I want to make the fat lady sing, or at least choose a more sensible diet.
  • I want to discover indisputable evidence that Bigfoot exists, then destroy it, so I’m the only one who really knows.
  • I want to come up with an idea that leads to world peace.
  • I want to amend the previous item on this list.
  • I want to come up with an idea that makes me filthy rich, and if the whole world peace thing also happens, that’s fine too…I guess.
  • I just want a bucket. (But not to pee in, that’s a chamber pot.)

    chamber pot

    A chamber pot: the perfect place to put this list.

So I’ve Ruffled Some Feathers


mad baby

“My feathers have been sufficiently ruffled.”

It seems I’ve ruffled some feathers.

Some big, fat, whiny, bitchy, crybaby feathers.

It’s not that this blog hasn’t generated negative reactions in the past. It has, and that disapproval has been manifest in many forms:

  • Through the WordPress comments function.
  • By email.
  • Unfriending me on Facebook.
  • Friending me on Facebook for the sole purpose of unfriending me.
  • Tweeting about me with the hashtag: jackass.
  • Sniper fire.
  • I’ve been accosted by mimes. (They don’t say much, but their gesticulated scorn is withering.)
  • Women flee at the sight of me. (To be frank, this was happening long before I started this blog.)
  • Small children bite me with their sharp little adolescent teeth.
  • A vicious diatribe was nailed to my front door, written in blood. (This one surprised me; Grandma needs all the blood she has.)
  • Random baboon attacks.
  • Skywriting.
  • Strategically placed billboards with shockingly filthy messages.
  • The song “You Suck” is constantly being dedicated to me on the radio.
  • Vitriolic letters to the editor of The Bolivian Free Press. (The Bolivian Free Press is an odd name for a newspaper in a country where the primary language isn’t English. It’s almost as though I made it up.)
  • Llamas spit at me, then act like it was an accident.
  • I get junk mail addressed to: That Ass Who Writes The Blog.
  • The letters in my alphabet soup randomly form death threats.
  • I am frequently presented with that time honored and always effective middle finger.

But it was the following passage from a recent post, Home is Where the Heart is…and a Bit of Predator, in which I detailed reasons my hometown is awesome, that has caused the cheese to slide off the crackers of a few people:

Reason #4: my aunts and uncles

If modern cinema and television have taught us anything through mega-hits such as Harry Potter, Twilight, and The Walking Dead, it’s that witches, vampires, werewolves, and various incarnations of the undead, are quite popular in current culture.

The town of Westfield, NY is polluted with my aunts and uncles.

Note: you get what I’m implying.

It has been suggested that this passage is defamatory, and this blog is guilty of slander.

That is ridiculous–defamation in written form is clearly libel.

Note: seriously, if you don’t know the difference between slander and libel, you shouldn’t run around all willy-nilly accusing anyone of either.

Nevertheless, a few points of clarification.

None of my aunts or uncles are werewolves. Sure their behavior is a tad monstrous when the moon is full, but it’s monstrous during all phases of the moon. They’re not any better when the sun is up…I guess my point is it’s pretty much a perpetual state.

None of my aunts or uncles are vampires; they’re bloodsuckers of an entirely different ilk.

None of my aunts or uncles are members of the undead. The stench of rotting flesh that follows when they arrive, and their seeming inability to communicate in even monosyllabic fashion, are probably just coincidences.

Witches? Granted, I’m not referring to the type of stereotypical green-skinned, broom-traversing witches such the wicked witches from the Wizard of Oz.  However…

Note: if only I could dispatch them with a bucket of water.

Remember this one important thing: it isn’t libel if it’s true.


Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a troop of flying monkeys to do your bidding?

flying monkey

A flying monkey toting Toto. (Not the rock group, he’d need a bigger basket.)

Rodeo Clowns, Boy Bands, and a Pissed Off Bull

“Is that N’ Sync I hear?”

Bulls are huge, powerfully built animals with menacing horns, devastating hooves, and an unflinching desire to be left alone.

Bull-riders, by comparison, are sweaty little cowboys who feel it’s heroic to climb onto the backs of bulls, regardless of how irritating it is to the bull.

Bulls have names like Destroyer, The Widow-Maker, and The Mauler.

Bull-riders have names like Bucky, Earl, and that guy who used have testicles.

Bulls are simple animals, content to stand around and chew their cud, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

Bull-riders are simple people, content to stand around and chew tobacco, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

The only thing in which bulls truly revel is inflicting life threatening injuries upon things that annoy them.

Bull-riders annoy them.

The only things that bulls hate more than bull-riders are rodeo clowns, the Kardashians, and boy bands.

Note: it should be mentioned–the entire animal kingdom hates boy bands…especially badgers.

angry badgers

We’re coming for you Timberlake.

The sanctioned amount of time a bull-rider must stay on the bull is eight seconds. It was found to be the amount of time it takes the average person to look up, do a double take, gape momentarily, then utter the phrase: “would you look at what that idiot over there is doing.”

The bull-rider sneaks up behind the bull while it’s minding its own business, peeing in the dirt, enjoying a moment of quiet reflection, and he scrabbles onto the bull’s back.

The bull is then released into the arena where storms around in a state of agitation as it attempts to repel the annoyance that has so rudely interrupted his peeing.

Note: a bull in a state of agitation, closely resembles any other creature in a blind rage…or Charlie Sheen on a good day.

Meanwhile the bull-rider is being thrashed about like a rag doll.

The bull swiftly dislodges the annoyance, launching him through the air. The annoyance crashes to the ground, tumbles several feet and skids to a halt.

He displaces an impressive amount of manure filled dirt with his face.

His teeth continue on for several more feet.

As the bull-rider staggers to his feet, dazed and unsure of what’s happening, the bull finishes peeing then turns to face him.

The bull lowers its horns and beats its hooves at the dirt; a malevolent glint appears in its dark animal eyes.

As in any time of great crisis, men wearing make-up are called upon to save the day: the rodeo clowns are deployed.

They dance around the bull, taunting and mocking it (evidently the bull is not pissed-off enough yet) until they can lure the bull’s attention away from the bull-rider.

Sensing that their efforts are falling short, they form a line and belt out an N’sync medley.

The bull becomes so confused with rage that it charges into the stands and heads straight for Kim Kardashian and Kayne West, who just happen to be in attendance.

The bull gruesomely gores Kim Kardashian’s butt, which for some unexplained reason, was fully nude and oiled-up.

The crowd cheers wildly.

The bull-rider is saved; the rodeo clowns are showered with cheers and adulation. It seems that all is well, until a pack of frenzied badgers pour into the arena and savagely attack the rodeo clowns.

After several moments of shrill screams and wild chittering, the badgers flee as quickly as they appeared.

The rodeo clowns lie in the dirt, bloody and defeated, their painted on smiles betraying them.


“You’re dressing oddly these days Kayne.”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of it’s mind, the bull feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

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